by Anna Carey
“He’s not here,” I said, returning to the den. My heart was pounding now, and I could feel my voice getting thin with nerves. “I can’t find him anywhere.”
My dad got up, but he was still watching the TV until he reached the stairs. His eyes flicked over the obvious places, the kibble bowl and the back door, where Fuller sometimes waited, whining at the glass to come in. Then he went into the living room and knelt on the floor.
“Bingo,” he said. “He’s probably just scared. It was a long day for all of us.”
Sure enough, Fuller was curled into a tight ball under the back corner of the couch. His eyes were open but he didn’t move, even when he saw me. My dad kissed me on the head and went back to the den.
“Fuller, it’s okay,” I tried. “I have a treat for you in the kitchen. Come here.”
Treat was one of the few words that Fuller understood, but he didn’t perk up when I said it. I inched closer until I could just barely reach him. He hated being dragged anywhere or being forced to do anything, but it was just too depressing—the thought that Fuller was depressed. I needed him.
As soon as I touched his front leg he let out a low growl, his whole body trembling with it. “It’s okay, buddy,” I reassured him. I tucked a hand under each of his front legs and tried to slide him out. He squirmed and growled some more.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You’re shaking. Are you sick?”
His nails scratched at the wood floor, his paws working furiously to keep him in place. I slid him just an inch farther and he bit down hard on my hand. It was so startling I pulled back, and he darted straight across the living room and under the dining table.
I looked at my hand, stunned. He’d gotten the fleshy bit around my thumb and it was already bleeding, the skin broken in two different places. I yanked a tissue from the box on the coffee table and wrapped it around the wound before going back to him.
“Bad,” I said in my sternest voice. “Bad Fuller.”
He sunk in on himself, both of his paws splayed out in front of him. When I knelt down, reprimanding him again, he flipped onto his back in submission. He knew he’d done something really horrible.
That’s when I noticed his chest. Instead of seven small, speckled grey spots, there was only one. His ears were different too. The skin on the right one was perfect—the two stitches were gone and there was no scar. How was that possible?
I leaned back against the wall, trying to steady myself. I don’t know how long I stayed there, silent, the world continuing on around me.
That wasn’t my dog.
12
“Dad…something is really wrong.”
I stood at the top of the den stairs, watching the light from the television flicker across his face. He didn’t register me. Instead he leaned in and raised his fists, tracking something in the game.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered. “Go, go, yes!”
He jabbed the air. Cheers filled the room. The announcer said something about it being a tied game, and the Red Sox having a good night.
“Did you need something, Jess?” he said, finally noticing me there. He lowered the volume with the remote so he could hear better.
“That dog…it isn’t Fuller. He doesn’t have the spots on his stomach and he hates me, he bit my hand.” It didn’t feel like enough somehow, so I added, “The scar on his ear is gone.”
My dad rubbed his temple, as if a sudden migraine was coming on.
“You’re sure?” he finally said.
“Am I sure? Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. “I know my dog.”
“That’s um…” He stared at the floor, like the answer might be printed on the carpet. “That’s really odd. I don’t know what to tell you.”
I thought he was going to say something else, but he just shrugged and turned his attention back to the game. I stared at him. Why was he being so weird? He wasn’t concerned that Fuller was missing? That some random dog was in our house?
I tore up the stairs, the sound of the game following me. He’d already raised the volume back to its normal can’t-hear-yourself-think level. I tried to go through my routine like nothing had happened. I put on my pajamas and lay in bed, listening to Love Phones on my stereo until the house was quiet and dark. Love Phones always made me forget my problems because the caller’s problems were so absurd. Like the girl whose new boyfriend asked her to dress up like a horse. I listened to hours of it, then the whole Tidal album start to finish, but the entire time I kept thinking about the imposter Fuller under the couch.
Was it some kind of stress-induced hallucination? How could Fuller…not be Fuller?
It must’ve been three a.m. by the time my mom’s headlights flashed across my bedroom wall. I pushed off the covers and ran downstairs, but it took forever for her to get to the front door.
“Christ, Jess! You scared me.”
She squinted against the foyer light. There were gray circles under her eyes and her sweater was creased across the front. She carried her purse like there was a bowling ball inside it.
“How’s Sara doing?” I followed her into the kitchen. She opened the fridge and stared into it, her face a mask of strange, ghostly light.
“She’s stable. They told me to go home and get some rest.” She glanced at her watch, then pulled out some leftover pasta. “I’m going to go back at eight. I couldn’t sleep there, but I can’t imagine I’ll be able to sleep here either.”
“So she’s going to be okay?”
“They don’t know.”
She didn’t look at me as she said it. Instead she grabbed a fork and ate right from the Tupperware, leaning against the sink for support. She picked around the pasta to get the cheesy bits of tomato and broccoli. It had been years since I’d seen her eat carbs.
“Something happened while you were out. With Fuller.”
“Please don’t tell me he got into a fight again.”
Part of me wondered if she’d been the one who’d done it. If Fuller had died right now, would she lie to protect me? Would she go as far as replacing him so I didn’t have to deal with that loss, on top of everything else? But her expression was an open door. She watched me, taking another bite, waiting for my answer.
“He bit me.” I held up my hand, showing her the tissue that was still wrapped around my thumb.
“He bit you? Are you all right?”
I nodded.
“He must be stressed. The paramedics coming through, all the commotion.”
“But it’s not just that. His ear…it’s like nothing ever happened. The stitches are gone.”
“I knew that vet was good.” She gestured with her fork. “He was like a plastic surgeon, the way he stitched Fuller up. They must’ve been the dissolvable kind.”
She closed the Tupperware and slid it back into the fridge.
“No—you’re not getting it. It’s not Fuller. There isn’t even a scar. And there aren’t any spots on his chest, not like before. Someone did something to the real Fuller. He’s gone.”
“What do you mean, the real Fuller?” She smiled as she said it, like I’d just told her some cheesy joke.
“He’s gone. There’s some random, fake Fuller in our house. A straight-up Fuller imposter.”
“Jess, come on. I’m too tired for this.”
“Seriously. It’s like…it’s like someone replaced him. Come here.”
I gestured for her to follow me to the living room, back to the couch and the mound of white fur beneath it. We were still a foot away from him when he started growling.
“See?” I said. “Fuller would never do that.”
Mom shook her head. “He’s probably still anxious about everything that happened today. No one replaced Fuller, Jess. I promise.”
I didn’t want to do it, but I had to. I reached under the couch for him, but as soon as I got within two
feet he went wild, each bark louder than the last. She plugged her ears with her fingers until I pulled my hand away.
“See? He hates me. And his ear is fine—it’s not even the same shape. The real Fuller’s flops over a little bit at the end. I’m telling you, someone did something to him. Why would he suddenly not have a scar? Those spots on his chest didn’t just disappear—this isn’t—”
That was it. My mom stood, brushing off her jeans. She was a tiny person, with ropey biceps and high, full cheekbones. People said we looked alike, but I couldn’t see it. She was prettier, thinner, and more elegant than I was. She was blond and never did anything to her eyebrows, but they somehow always managed to look perfect. Now she was studying my face like it was something strange and ugly.
“I don’t know, okay, Jess? I don’t know,” she said. “But maybe you could be a bit more sensitive. Today has been one of the worst days of my life and you know what? It may only get worse from here. So I don’t know why his ear is different, but I don’t really care.”
“I wasn’t being insensitive.” My eyes were suddenly burning, and I could feel the weight of the day behind them. How empty the house was when I came home. The inside of the car, still and silent, as my dad drove the seven minutes to the hospital. Sara in that bed. I ran my hand over the couch cushion, counting the tiny black stitches along the seam. I’d gotten to eight before she said anything.
“I can’t do this,” my mom said. She gestured at me, at the couch.
“You can’t do what? You can’t…talk to me? You can’t be my mother?”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” she snapped. Then she turned back toward the kitchen. “I’m just tired, Jess. I’m beyond tired…I’m running on empty.”
When I got to the doorway she was at the fridge again, examining one of Sara’s medicine bottles. She read and reread the label, then opened it and counted the pills inside.
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. She looked miserable as she checked another bottle and then held one of the saline bags up to the light. She was doing what I’d done. She was trying to figure out where things went wrong.
“I really can’t handle any more stress. Just…please don’t bring it up again.”
She stared at me, and there was nothing behind her eyes. If she had even said just a little more, or explained what she thought had happened, maybe I wouldn’t have felt the bottomless, horrible feeling I felt then. Please don’t bring it up again?
She was lying. I knew she was lying to me.
I climbed the stairs like a ghost, unable to focus on anything in front of me. I found myself in Sara’s room, and then I was turning on the light beside her bed. The sheets were a tangled mess. A plastic cup and tissue box had fallen on the floor, probably when the paramedics had gotten her. My bare foot sucked against the thin, sticky layer of apple juice.
The collage was almost exactly as it had been that morning. Pressed flowers, the Annie playbill, that photo strip of me and Sara from the Swickley carnival, two years ago. My eyes went to the blank space on the right. Someone had adjusted the pictures around it so it wasn’t as noticeable, but there was no way I’d miss it. There was no way I wouldn’t have realized it was gone.
The most perfect, photogenic picture of Fuller had disappeared. I bent down to check the floor, but it was clear. It wasn’t stuck behind the postcard below it, either.
I peered into the hall, but Mom wasn’t there. The light in the kitchen was on and I could hear the sink running. I moved my hand to the black-and-white photo strip of Sara and me, as though that was what I’d always come here for—as if it was the only thing I’d wanted. I peeled it off the wall, then picked the rolled tape off the back, making sure I didn’t crease it. I couldn’t risk this memory disappearing, or being stolen, or whatever the hell had happened to the photo of Fuller.
It was the only thing tethering me to reality.
13
I’d finally fallen asleep when I heard the car horn. With everything that had happened yesterday, I’d forgotten to tell Kristen not to pick me up.
My dad peeked his head into my room. He had on a collared shirt and his hair was combed in place. He looked like he’d been awake for hours. “You don’t have to go to school if you don’t want to. Mom’s at the hospital. I was going to head over in a few.”
Kristen beeped again, and I wanted to throw something out the window at her. Why didn’t she realize that beeping incessantly was rude? It hadn’t been more than, like, thirty seconds.
“Or you could come meet us this afternoon,” my dad said. “Your call.”
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. My hair was a little tangled in the back, but all it would take was a quick change and I’d be ready. I’d still have to explain to Ms. Chen why I hadn’t written any of the Cold War responses in my History workbook.
“I guess I could use the distraction…” I wiped the sleep from my eyes and grabbed my striped turtleneck from my closet. My dad was waiting in the doorway, like he wasn’t sure if I was serious. “Will you tell them I’m coming?”
* * *
The backseat was piled with Kristen’s field hockey stuff, the beat-up stick threaded through the handles of the bag. I slid it over and buckled in. Everything smelled like wet grass.
“You look like butt.” Amber twisted in her seat to get a better view of me. They’d already stopped at Walter’s for her extra-large coffee, and she held it with both hands, sipping it like hot cocoa.
“Your alarm didn’t go off?” Kristen asked. I met her gaze in the rearview mirror.
I raked the back of my hair with my fingers, trying to get the knots out. It wasn’t until we were halfway down the street that I realized I’d forgotten to brush my teeth. I was certain my breath smelled.
“Sorry. I slept three hours last night. Not even.” It was only a half-second pause, but I hesitated before I said the rest. There was no way to have the conversation without it changing everything. “It’s Sara.”
“Oh no, Jess, I’m sorry,” Amber said. “And I didn’t mean—you look—”
“I do look like butt,” I laughed. “I know I do.”
“What happened? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Kristen was watching me so intensely in the rearview she didn’t notice the stop sign. She had to slam on her brakes to make it.
That’s the thing, though. Talking always made me feel better, like handing off bricks one by one until the weight of everything isn’t just on me. I’d never turned down the chance to tell Kristen and Amber what I was thinking. About Sara, about anything.
So I started with my dad, and what the house was like when I came home last night. How the paramedics had been there while I was out, and how Sara wouldn’t wake up, and the hospital room and that horrible mask that they’d put over her face. I told them about the dog that definitely wasn’t Fuller, and the fight with my mom. I don’t know why, but I stopped right before the part about the missing photograph. Would it sound too weird? Like I was…maybe losing my mind a little?
“My mom was lying about it. And I don’t know if something happened. Maybe he got hit by a car, or maybe they just had to put him down…” My chest felt tight, and I tried to push it away, the thought that I was never going to see Fuller again. “…maybe she didn’t want to tell me. I mean, he was really old. Maybe she didn’t think I could handle it.”
“That sounds a little extreme,” Amber finally said. We’d just pulled into the school’s long, winding driveway. The upperclassmen parking lot was still half empty.
“I don’t know how else to explain it.”
Kristen threw the Volvo into park and stared out the windshield. Kevin Pak and Liz Woodward were sitting on the back bumper of Kevin’s Miata, making out. Kristen didn’t seem to register them.
“You’ve just had to deal with a lot lately,” she finally said. “Your
mom is definitely anxious and overprotective, and she still seems pretty pissed about the break-in. But she’s not a liar. At least I don’t think she is?”
“So then what happened? Where is Fuller, and who is this other dog?” I leaned forward, resting my hands on their seats.
Amber glanced sideways at Kristen, and it was so subtle I wouldn’t have noticed it unless I was right there, right next to them. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Amber shrugged.
“You just gave Kristen this look, like I’m being weird or something.”
“You just told us your mom found another dog and replaced your real dog, because she’s trying to trick you,” Amber said.
“Okay, when you put it like that it sounds wild. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t actually happen,” I said.
Amber picked at her glittery nail polish. “You’ve just been on edge lately,” she said. “I feel awful about what’s going on with Sara, and we want to be there for you, seriously. We do. It’s just…I don’t know what happened, but I really doubt that’s it.”
She grabbed her backpack and got out of the car. Kristen fiddled with the bag in the back, pulling out some gym clothes before heading toward the school’s front entrance. I followed behind them. At some point Amber changed the subject, pointing out the faded chalk 1998s on the sidewalk—remnants of the senior prank. I just nodded, feeling like I couldn’t say anything right. I knew what I’d seen. I knew I wasn’t imagining it. I’d been certain that they’d believe me. Why did Amber and Kristen always feel the need to dissect everything until it was a confusing mess? Didn’t they know I’d never make this up?
I still felt so separate from them, even now. They were supposed to be my best friends, but lately everything was off. I’d told them a dozen times about the fact that I 1) had feelings for Tyler and 2) had kissed him the night of Jen Klein’s party, but they still kept bringing up Patrick Kramer and that stupid Spring Formal invite. It was absurd. On the ride home from Jen’s, Kristen had asked two questions about me making out with Tyler, my best guy friend since fourth grade, and ten questions about the three-minute interaction I’d had with Patrick. In the past few days Amber had only mentioned Tyler once, offhandedly, and Kristen hadn’t mentioned him at all. Why couldn’t they at least pretend to be happy for me?
